


Dance me to the end of Love

by meinposhbastard



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, M/M, UST, Violinist!Aziraphale, sensual UST if you ask me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-12
Updated: 2014-11-12
Packaged: 2018-02-25 03:22:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2606660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meinposhbastard/pseuds/meinposhbastard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>It starts as with any ball held by the Count: orchestrated music, flashy clothes and masks all around.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dance me to the end of Love

**Author's Note:**

> By now you'd start thinking that I have something with the violin. Hahaha, you'd be right. Violin and cello are my top favourite musical instruments; then comes the piano XD
> 
> Again, this ficlet was inspired by yet another song. This time no Beethoven, no classic music. Just The Civil Wars' "Dance me to the end of Love" song, from where, yes (I'll give you only 10 points, 'cause it was darn obvious) I took this ficlet's title.
> 
> Hope I can coerce you to plunge into the throEs of passion! XD

 

It starts as with any ball held by the Count: orchestrated music, flashy clothes and masks all around.

As soon as Crowley descends the burgundy carpeted stairs, the lights dim considerably and every sound disappears as if by magic. He’s no handsome man, but the high cheekbones, changing eyes and cruel smile offer him a certain charisma which enchants man and woman alike. It’s not immediate, the result. It takes time and patience for them to agree that Crowley has an unique air about him.

Nobody knows how he does it, or if it really depends on him.

But everybody seems to be attracted to this kind of mysteriousness.

Even Aziraphale.

But his case verges more on the intrigued kind than just mere attraction. The subtleness of the Count certainly puts his intellect to work, tickling it with each organized ball, with each gaze Aziraphale meets unashamedly.

It’d be a show of rudeness not to return the steady, intense, piercing eyes across the ballroom. The curiosity is just that terrible to resist.

So they dance like this for a long time, never in the daylight, always when the lights are dimmed and Crowley offers the privilege of a dance to the first woman his eyes land on.

He moves with grace and passion, his body lust incarnated, eyes keeping steady on Aziraphale, on his nimble fingers and stance held high, violin tucked under his chin.

Crowley never strays far from the orchestra, always in close proximity, but not too close, always wearing white, but for the red rose artfully placed into his breast pocket.

A truly dashing figure, parading just one woman per night, just one, long dance, before he disappears when mouths are busy commenting on the performance and eyes distracted to see the white figure disappear behind one of the many silver decorated doors.

But Aziraphale sees him. Ever vigilant brilliant blue eyes easily catching sight of the white tuxedo in the multi-coloured sea of guests; ever more intrigued by the host of the balls his orchestra is always called to, just to give the desired touch of classic it needs.

He sees when Crowley appears; he sees when the Count disappears.

It feels like a game.

It is a game.

One Aziraphale is unconsciously part of.

The Count’s parties are more and more frequent, going from once a week to thrice, now four per week.

Aziraphale plays the first note of the familiar song and Crowley appears, just like that, and the lights seem to lose their brightness, lose themselves into the whiteness that’s him, _only him_ , and the room falls quiet, a collective inability to do anything else but stare.

Aziraphale’s eyes lift slowly, head turning slightly to one side, prepared to give the start to the song. But he pauses, no more than a couple of seconds, he does, feeling trapped by an intense gaze, even if Crowley’s too far for Aziraphale to make out his expression.

Curiosity is a terrible feeling to go against; intrigueness more so.

“Oh dear,” he breathes, and wills himself to remember the notes.

They come out almost imperceptibly shaky at first, then more firm and determined, muscle memory saving Aziraphale. Crowley smirks and descends the stairs, ever present grace and fluidity making him appear as if he’s floating.

The room is too mesmerized to notice that Crowley has already picked up his partner for the night. A young lady clothed into a flourishing sapphire blue dress. Fortunately, she catches up quickly with the developing situation. Aziraphale’s violin breaks the spell the room quietens under when the Count makes his presence known, murmurs making for a good background noise.

Crowley’s eyes settle where they always did--and always will. The blond whose bow sets off lust and passion within Crowley like a fire set ablaze by the tiniest of sparks.

There’s no woman within the Count’s arms, no crowd surrounding him. There’s only him and the curious violinist, _his violinist_ , dancing together.

The dance Crowley became so addicted to.

Aziraphale resists the other’s pull. He keeps his eyes closed, head turned towards his violin, intent on feeling the sensuous stream of notes that pour from his bow. He truly does want to savour the song as he does with his wine, but the magnetism on the other side of the room is too great to resist.

Count Crowley’s eyes are as piercing as ever, when cerulean gives in and eyelids lift reluctantly, giving way to passion dancing alluringly within the Count’s now darkened pools. It’s burning and tempting.

He forbids himself. Looking is safe for Aziraphale’s sanity and Crowley’s reputation.

They don’t know that neither cares about those things anymore.

Now Crowley’s wide pirouettes come close, closer to Aziraphale than he ever let himself to, not because he didn’t want what the violinist’s eyes suggest, but because he liked the game they created for themselves.

Aziraphale can’t let the tempo falter, when the Count’s partner is suddenly let backwards just at his feet, hungry eyes intent on Aziraphale’s rather than the milky white neck that’s stretched in a silent offer to the Count.

Aziraphale keeps the tempo steady. Barely.

He can’t help the swallow, Crowley’s eyes following his Adam’s apple as it goes up and down like a starved wolf follows its prey. Clouded blue look down at the man at his feet. He’s majestic in the black tuxedo, stance held high, but without the proudness added to it, because Aziraphale knows nothing about pride in stark colours, shirt’s first two buttons undone, as if he upped the game’s prospect.

Tempting Lust always presents high risks.

The lady remains still underneath Crowley, eyes closed, face slightly flushed. Lust incarnated is offering her as a tribute to Purity, because that’s how Lust plays--that’s how _he_ loves.

The violin burns into Aziraphale’s hand, under his chin. The flush blooms magnificently across his cheeks, down his neck, disappearing under the white shirt. Lust is too close, too tempting, too hot. Liquid passion is what Aziraphale’s lungs take in.

Crowley’s warm breath on her neck will be the closest the lady will ever get to feel his sinful lips, mouth parted slightly to let the air caress her, as his eyes _devour_ the violinist - _his_ violinist - patiently, adoringly, sweetly. The way Lust just knows it’ll ever be able to make Purity _thrive_.

His eyes lick down Aziraphale’s neck. The small distance and the warm body that’s between them matter not. What are they in the face of all-consuming passion but mere pebbles?

Crowley feels the hotness of Aziraphale’s skin, its soft and tender texture, the small vibrations under his expert tongue, when demure little sounds escape Aziraphale. He sees himself smirking above Aziraphale, drinking him in like the most prized wine, little sips at a time, never big gulps, never impatient. Purity flourishes only under tender coercion, flushes only under soft caresses and responds in kind only to love.

Lust is Lust--until it’s not.

Aziraphale knows she’s not in his arms, his breath doesn’t ghost across her skin. It’s not her, it never was.

It will always be Aziraphale there.

**Author's Note:**

> I regret nothing! XD


End file.
